Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Glenis Wilson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Recent Titles by Glenis Wilson
BLOOD ON THE TURF
PHOTO FINISH
WEB OF EVASION
LOVE IN LAGANAS
THE HONEY TREE
ANGEL HARVEST
VENDETTA
The Harry Radcliffe series
DEAD CERTAINTY *
DEAD ON COURSE *
* available from Severn House
DEAD ON COURSE
Glenis Wilson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world hardcover edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by Glenis Wilson.
The right of Glenis Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Wilson, Glenis author.
Dead on course.
1. Horse racing–Fiction. 2. Murder–Investigation–
Fiction. 3. Suspense fiction.
I. Title
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8544-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-646-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-703-5 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Dedicated to my parents Edna and Albert ‘Tal’ Wilson
And to my late sister, Heather, the artist in the family, who loved horses, supported the horse welfare charities and helped design the cover of my first racing novel, Blood on the Turf.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Mr Nick Sayers at Hodder & Stoughton. His belief in me and the manuscripts kept me going.
Mr David Grossman, my literary agent.
David Meykell, clerk of the course, Leicester Racecourse, for allowing me to ‘do’ a murder on his racecourse.
Roderick Duncan, clerk of the course, Southwell Racecourse.
Jean Hedley, clerk of the course, Nottingham Racecourse.
Mark McGrath, former manager, Best Western North Shore Hotel and Golf Course, Skegness.
Bill Hutchinson, present manager, and all the lovely staff at the above hotel with special thanks to Gavin Disney, Dan, Nikki, Mariusz and Katie for all their help.
Sarah at Sarah’s Flowershop.
All the library staff at Bingham, Radcliffe-on-Trent and Nottingham Central, with special thanks to Steve and to Rosie for her expertise on computers.
David and Anne Brown, printers and friends for bailing me out – twice – and finding just where chapters twelve and thirteen had disappeared to!
Lois Brough, a savvy lady from Crime Readers’ Group.
The police at Skegness and the staff at Nottingham Prison for checking facts.
Management at The Dirty Duck at Woolsthorpe.
Kirsty at The Unicorn Hotel at Gunthorpe.
Vickie Litchfield at The Royal Oak, Radcliffe-on-Trent.
Sue, Alison and Martin, the chef at the White Lion, Bingham.
And for all the people who have helped me in whatever way during the course of writing the ‘Harry’ novels, may I say a very big thank you and have a great read.
ONE
I knew I was a target when I opened the cottage door that morning and found, sitting on the doorstep, a pair of false teeth. I stared down at them, they grinned back at me. A twinge of guilt, unexpected, unpleasant and unwarranted, made itself felt. They weren’t real, as in made of porcelain; these were plaster. But they were real enough to me and I knew the message they conveyed.
A finger of apprehension ran down my spine. I was prepared to bet Harlequin Cottage they were replicas of the original false teeth belonging to Carl Smith, jump jockey. Now deceased. Or – more accurately – murdered. We shared unpleasant history.
The whole business was over in physical terms, but obviously not emotionally and mentally with some other person – or persons.
Picking up my morning bottle of milk – and the teeth – I backed into the cottage and nudged the door closed behind me. Leo, my ginger tomcat, fired up his personal pneumatic drill at the sight of the milk and purred loudly. I poured him out a generous saucer before tipping some into my waiting mug of tea. Then I hooked a foot around the chair leg and sat down at the kitchen table.
Placing the teeth on the tabletop, I scrutinized them at close quarters. Lifting the upper set, I delicately placed it squarely above the bottom one. Carl had used a good dentist. The dentures fitted together perfectly. But the reason he had needed to visit the dentist was entirely my fault. However, Carl didn’t need them any more; he was dead.
So, the question remained: who had benefited from his demise and inherited his estate, after payments out, of course, of all outstanding debts and testamentary expenses?
I had no idea and I was going to have to find out. Before whoever it was found me. I sighed deeply. Too late, mate, I told myself – they already had me pegged and in their sights. The very act of leaving the teeth on my doorstep said, in clear tones, all your fault. And, undoubtedly, repercussions would be coming my way very soon.
So, what was new?
For the last three or four months, trouble and personal danger had dogged me. Unfortunate accidents, occasioning actual bodily harm, had befallen me with sickening frequency. But they hadn’t been accidents. I’d been a target. However, I’d thought that at last the hellish time was behind me. Now, I was being targeted again.
Sudden anger
blazed high inside me. This time I was going to stamp down on whoever was threatening me – very hard.
A ginger paw, complete with grappling irons for claws, reached across the table, batted the dentures and sent them clattering. That was what Leo thought of them. My anger died instantly. He had a very balancing effect on tense situations. I grinned and tickled him behind the ears to deflect him whilst I rescued the teeth from further indignity.
Scooping them up into a plastic freezer bag, I took them through to the office and slid them into one of my desk drawers. I needed them perfect and unbroken. They were crucial to discovering just who was gunning for me.
Leaving them on the cottage doorstep may have been a declaration of war, but as far as I was concerned, the dentures were going to lead me right into the enemy camp.
TWO
I left the dimness of the weighing room and walked across to the parade ring, bathed in late-summer sunshine, to meet two friends. One, long-standing – Mike Grantley, racehorse trainer – and one, very recent – Samuel Simpson, racehorse owner. The man whose racing silks – purple and green – I was wearing, and whose horse – Online – I was about to ride in a three-mile steeplechase over the course at Market Rasen.
I hoped like hell I didn’t make a complete horlicks of it and betray their trust. Today was the first time in six months I was race riding. It wasn’t my first time in the saddle, of course. Riding out every morning for the last five or six weeks, for Mike on his gallops situated on the Leicestershire/Nottinghamshire border had, thankfully, put paid to my fear. Prior to this, yes, I had doubted myself, felt I’d never ride again.
But gentle hacking, followed by riding out in the morning string and finally riding work, akin to simulated race riding, had sheered up my very real insecurity and wobbly self-belief.
A shattered patella, following a fall over a brushwood jump whilst travelling at possibly thirty miles an hour, was not guaranteed to give any jump jockey confidence in a comeback to race riding.
‘Hello, Mike, Samuel,’ I greeted them.
Samuel stepped forward and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you, lad.’
His hand landed on my left shoulder and I was relieved to find it gave me no pain. For one disloyal moment, I wondered if he had deliberately chosen the left one to see if I felt any resulting discomfort. Well, after all, I was riding his horse and he was paying Mike for its upkeep. Samuel needed a jockey who was fully fit.
He knew, only too well, I’d suffered a smashing blow to that shoulder from a criminal intent upon murder and, just days later, taken a bullet in the same place. It could have left my shoulder significantly weakened. Thankfully, it hadn’t.
And on a very personal level, it was also entirely my fault that his daughter was struggling to cope with overwhelming heartache and the shame associated with it.
But looking at his open smiling face, I chided myself for the uncharitable thought.
It was a good job I was getting back to normal, going back to work racing. I was in danger of getting paranoid.
I hated to admit it, but finding the false teeth waiting on my doorstep had brought back all the unpleasant and deeply hurtful memories of the last few months. I had found it necessary, then, to be deeply suspicious of just about everybody, with the exception of Mike. And, of course, Annabel.
Annabel, my darling wife. My darling, estranged wife who I still desperately wanted back. At that point, I reined in my thoughts. It did no good whatsoever letting myself think of her. I found it deeply enervating.
I needed to concentrate on the imminent race.
‘Leg you up?’ Mike’s enquiry was what I needed. He was smiling and nodding. He knew better than anyone my anguished soul-searching regarding my racing future. Mike was a glass-half-full type of chap. His belief in me had never wavered. I was very lucky I could call him a friend – had been doing for the last twenty-five years or more since we were kids at school together.
Now, he was my boss, and a very successful racehorse trainer – amongst the top ten in the country. Before the ride on Gold Sovereign earlier in the year that resulted in the smashing fall, literally, I’d been his retained jockey. It was a satisfying partnership for both of us, financially and as friends. When you found your back against the wall, there was no finer person to have on your side. I’d trust him with my life. Of course, the reverse was also true, as he knew very well.
I bent a knee and Mike flipped me up into the saddle.
He gave me a light, friendly punch on the thigh. ‘No instructions. Ride like you always do.’
‘And I’ve every confidence in you, too, lad.’
‘Thanks, Samuel. Glad you could make it today,’ I said and meant it. ‘Do my best.’
He beamed widely. ‘I know you will. And it’s not just me, Harry; Chloe’s arrived – look.’ He nodded towards the crowd packed tightly against the parade ring rails.
A delectable young woman of about thirty, wearing a red belted suit and black ankle boots, topped by a black beret set at a brave, jaunty angle, made her way through the throng and entered the parade ring. She waved and came over to us.
‘Darling,’ Samuel said and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, ‘you look delightful.’
‘Thank you, Dad. You know how to bolster a girl’s confidence.’ She gave him a quick, fierce hug. For a sliver of a second, her veneer of self-belief slipped a fraction. If you hadn’t been watching carefully, you wouldn’t have noticed. But I was watching and I did. It was going to take time for her to pull up out of the hole into which she’d been pitched head first.
Again, I experienced a twinge of guilt, unexpected, unpleasant and unwarranted.
THREE
Online and I shared previous history. I knew he was a very genuine horse. A bright bay, deep-chested and big-hearted. Always gave of his best and never gave up trying until the post was passed. Owned by Samuel Simpson, I’d ridden him whilst he was being trained by Elspeth Maudsley. When Elspeth had, literally, retired from the scene, Samuel had transferred most of his horses to Mike’s yard.
Online was the horse I’d ridden many times on Mike’s gallops during the last few weeks. I’d got to know him pretty well. He was one of those horses who didn’t respond to the whip. In any case, there was no need to use one: his eagerness to run was gratifying, matched only by my own enthusiasm. We were striving after the same goal.
I cantered him down to the start and walked him in circles with the other horses and jockeys until the starter called us to order.
When the tape went up, we set off at a steady pace consistent with a race of three miles in front of us. Eighteen horses were entered for the race and I settled him into midfield. We lobbed along, holding a nice line close to the rails. Online wasn’t favourite – that distinction was held by Dark Duke who was odds-on – but at seven-to-one, fourth in the betting after Silver Charm, he was certainly in with a chance.
However, it wasn’t the horse’s ability that was in question – he’d won three times, come second several times and was consistently in the frame, especially when the field of horses numbered sixteen and above. For more than fifteen in a race, fourth place counted and was paid out on. With his record, I hoped we could manage fourth.
But it was my own riding that would determine the outcome. Race riding brought its own level of fitness. I’d been sidelined for months, of necessity, with no riding whatsoever. Just how fit I was, I would soon find out. And you certainly needed to be fit to ride a three-mile race and then have energy in spades to push for home and ride a finish. If Online failed to come in the frame, it wouldn’t be his fault, it would be mine – no question.
And I desperately wanted to make a good fist of this first race. Not only was fitness necessary for a racing jockey, he needed confidence – and I knew right now I hadn’t got it. A good result here would be worth far more to me than the prize money it would bring.
But the other reason I badly wanted to get a result was for Samuel himself. It was unfor
givable of me to have entertained such a low thought of his intention earlier. But the constant stress I’d been under for months, together with having to be suspicious of everybody, had left me with my trust in other people considerably shaken. The end had proved my suspicions justified. But it had made me less able to trust my judgement – not a pleasant feeling.
It was because of me that Samuel’s family had been rocked to the core. They could have gone the other way and blamed me, and I wouldn’t have blamed them, whereas all I’d received from them was consideration for the part I’d played – been forced to play. In the midst of their own pain, they had spared sympathy and compassion for my own grievous loss. If Online could run a good race, I would feel I was making amends for a situation that had gone way beyond my control and inflicted such dreadful consequences on them, especially Samuel’s daughter, Chloe. It said a great deal for Samuel that he had specifically asked Mike to put me up as jockey today.
But riding Online, with the wind blowing against my cheeks and the emerald turf flashing away beneath his hooves, my spirits rose like a released bird. The pure pleasure of simply riding a good horse that loved his racing was like a drug in my system.
I felt a surge of joy as we met the twelfth fence perfectly placed and Online flew it with inches to spare and gained three lengths’ advantage, putting him now into sixth place behind the leaders. This was the real reason I was a jockey. I was doing the only thing I wanted to do on God’s earth. Nothing else compared with the elation that coursed through me as I galloped for home on a willing, eager horse who exulted in doing what he’d been born to do – race.
Dead on Course Page 1
